you told me that moving on was bittersweet,
that it wrapped itself like christmas gifts.
and each layer of wrapping,
becomes a message i do not send.
i do not tell you how well you looked in that blue dress.
the ruffles drooping down like oceans,
and you are the shore.
the men are your tourist attraction,
but i am your home.
so when presented with an opportunity to travel back from this year-long journey.
why am i so hesitant to let you stay.
is it because your name leaves whispers in my fathers tongue
that we were not gay to begin with.
that if i maybe untuck my shirt,
that i will find a guy to keep me company.
and then in her denial
she tells me i do not deal with homophobia
that my race makes me somehow superior.
i understand that sentence,
but i do feel the stares every time i hold my lovers hand
in the bus, in a park, on the train, at a supermarket, the movies
i have taken my fair share of women to place i now walk alone.
like an odette song, silent but beaming.
my poetry sticks like slime
like your name on my instagram account
how every word is twisted and
jolted out of my friends mouths
ask me when we will finally get together.
tell me that question once she gets her sailor shirt back
the third year i've spent christmas eve crying over a woman